


The incident involving the broken ice

by Prawnperson



Category: Don’t Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Cold Weather, Cuddling and Snuggling, F/M, Fluff, Mild Angst, Pre-Relationship, Snow, Winter, collar kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 14:48:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21017543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prawnperson/pseuds/Prawnperson
Summary: Set during Willow and Wilson’s first winter within the Constant.





	The incident involving the broken ice

Willow hears the crack of ice and the little shriek, and her heart almost beats out of her chest.

“Wilson?”

Sure enough, there’s a large hole in the thick layer of ice on the pond. There’s flashes of pale white and red, warped by the ripples in the murky water. Willow immediately drops her pickaxe, dropping to her knees and plunging her hands into the water. Her nerves burn with the pain of the cold. 

She grabs at what she hopes is the back of Wilson’s collar and underneath his arm, and yanks him up. Wilson’s head emerges with a gasp and a spluttering cough, digging his blunt fingernails into the frozen muck around the edge of the pond. He manages to drag his upper half out of the water, legs still dangling uselessly until Willow hoiks him the rest of the way up.

“Wils? You ok?”

He coughs, spitting up muddy water into the snow. Willow winces and rubs at his back. His coughing finally ceases after a few minutes, leaving him trembling on the ground, braced on his hands and knees in the thick layer of powdery snow.

“What the hell were you doing?”

She finally asks, brushing back some of the wet hair that’s plastered to his forehead. He looks like a drowned rat, cold and miserable. His normally gravity defying hair is hanging down at his shoulder, yet somehow, it's already starting to dry. 

“Trying to-to...get some...foliage sample-s...”

He gestures weakly towards the petrified little plants around the edge of the water. Willow shakes her head, barely suppressing a disbelieving little laugh.

“You silly ass. It’s, like, minus a billion out here.”

“We w-would have...been frozen to d-d-death...if that we-were true...”

“You nearly are, stupid.”

Willow just manages to bring Wilson to his feet, supporting him with her arms under his. They begin the short walk to their little base, Wilson stumbling the entire way, leaning heavily against Willow, barely awake. As much as she hates to admit it, she's more than a little concerned about Wilson. Normally he spends their walks together pointing out interesting details about the flora and fauna or stopping to go and collect some samples of the wildlife for further study. 

By the time they get back it’s close to night. The long dusk is drawing to a close, sky growing darker with each passing minute. Wilson collapses onto the overturned tree trunk in front of the fire pit, watching rather hopelessly as Willow takes a log from her pack and throws it onto the fire. She takes out her lighter, holding its flame against a tuft of grass before throwing that too into the ring of stones. It only takes a few seconds for the fire to crackle to life, Willow smiling brightly.

She takes it upon herself to make dinner. There’s a good portion of ice and morsels available. She decides that meatballs would be the most stable option, and throws the ingredients into the crockpot, setting the fire under that, too, and going to sit beside Wilson.

The poor scientist is practically frozen solid, teeth chattering, shoulders hunched, clothes still soaked through as he makes a pathetic attempt to dry himself off in front of the fire. She can make out beads of water still running down his face, reflecting the soft orange glow of the firelight. 

“You’ll get nowhere like that, y’know.”

Wilson looks at her blankly, eyes almost glazed over. It’s more concerning than anything else, maybe even a little funny. She isn’t too sure at this point. She shifts slightly closer to Wilson, cautiously wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He immediately tenses, seemingly trying to lean both into and away from the touch.

“Wi-Willow...”

The pyromaniac in question doesn’t respond, instead shifting so that Wilson’s back is pressed against her chest. She coils her arms around his middle, pressing against him until there’s no space between them.

Some of the tremors wracking through his small body subside, heat seeping into his back.

“It would help if you took your waistcoat off.”

Willow instructs, reaching around to pick at the buttons. Wilson shivers, trembling fingers attempting to bat hers away, but Willow is insistent. Eventually, the scientist relents, hands falling back into his lap, fingers curled in.

“Willow, this r-really isn’t proper.”

She tuts in response, helping him shrug the waistcoat off. She lays it across her knees to fold it, turning slightly away from Wilson, but not so much that he’ll go cold. It’s as if her body forces her hands to linger over the fabric as she moves, practically soaking up the feeling of the smooth silk at the back, a stark contrast to the woven, striped cotton at the front.

Seemingly, Wilson is no longer satisfied to be left in a half-cuddle, despite his previous insistence that it wasn’t right. He nudges his head below her jaw, soft yet spiky hair brushing against her cheek. Willow laughs at that, namely to hide her relief that he finally seems to be drying up enough to move about again.

The thing is, Willow is deliciously warm. Wilson isn’t sure he’s ever felt someone as warm. Not that he’s felt many people before, though, and certainly none to this extent. Still, he supposes it’s all for the good of survival. It’s probably not for the good of survival that he nuzzles against her neck more than is necessary, or that he inhales her scent privately, charcoal and sweat and cold skin.

“H-how are you so warm?”

He rasps. Willow merely shrugs, stroking the nape of his neck.

“I may feel warm to you, but I’m freakin’ freezing. I hate winter.”

She only receives a nod as response. The crockpot stops in its bubbly rattling, finally finished cooking. She clambers up and over to them, Wilson not letting go of her the entire time. It makes the walk a little awkward, and she nearly trips up in the powdery snow.

“Eat.”

Willow commands. Obediently, Wilson reaches into the crockpot and takes a meatball between his thumb and forefinger. 

“I’ll sleep on the be-bedroll tonight. You t-take the tent.”

“Like all hell you will. You damn near killed yourself earlier. A night outside would for sure finish you off.”

Wilson furrows his brow, opens his mouth to say something, and promptly closes it again, chewing thoughtfully. Willow takes a meatball for herself, popping the whole thing into her mouth.

“Let’s just sleep together.”

She finally proposes. Even though his face has already been reddened by the cold weather, she can still see his blush grow and spread. His tremors come back with reinvigorated force, eyes widening.

“Miss Willow!”

She rolls her eyes and puts the lid back on the crockpot. She wasn’t terribly hungry anyway, and she’s sure Wilson would have spoken up by now if he needed anything more. Any more food, at least.

“Oh, come on. There’s no sense in one of us getting hypothermia when the tent’s big enough for us both.”

“That’s hardly the point! It’s not at all proper for a grown man and woman to share sleeping quarters whenever they’re engaged in courtship prior to marriage, much less whenever they’re merely friends! The social implications w-“

It takes Wilson a second to notice that he’s already been lead into the tent, Willow closing the flap shut behind them. It seems Willow's taken two of the four thermal stones from beside the fire, one placed into the top left hand corner of the tent, the other into the bottom right. It gives the small space an almost cozy feeling. The wind outside is howling, but Wilson can barely hear it over the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

“Social implications? Who’s gonna spill, Wilson? A gobbler? One of the hounds?”

The scientist is silent, mouth set in a thin line, face still on fire. Willow grins, crawling into the centre of the tent, grabbing the hem of her jumper. 

“What are you doing?”

Wilson stutters. He scuttles back, trying his best to create distance between them despite his deep rooted desire to do...something. Something that involves touch and closeness. Something he can’t quite understand.

“Getting undressed. I’m not goin’ to sleep in snow damp clothes. You shouldn't either, if you’ve any sense in that big head of yours.”

“Willow, I should leave...”

She snorts and pulls her jumper off, going to unbutton her blouse. Wilson makes a scramble for the tent flaps, but is stopped by Willow’s hand pressing insistently against his chest.

“Listen, I trust you, Wilson.”

“Pardon me?”

“I trust you. You’re a little bit odd, sure, and your hair’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen, including the tall birds, but I still trust you.”

She can feel him un-tense slightly as he leans back on his knees.

“Do you really?”

“Yeah, I do. You’re sweet, and you’re polite, and you’re funny, and you’ve never once tried it on. If I can trust you not to dissect me for science or tie me up for the spiders to eat, then I’d like to think you can trust me to sleep beside you.”

Instinctively, Wilson begins unbuttoning his shirt.

“Of course I trust you! I just thought that...well, it’s not...I’m a man and...well, with you being so pretty, it hardly seems...”

He trails off, flustered, peeling off his half-wet shirt. Willow unzips her skirt and takes off her stockings, happy she left her boots outside the tent. She hopes that Wilson isn't looking closely enough to see the dusting of scarlet across her face. By the time she looks up Wilson is down to his boxer shorts and vest. She can’t help looking a bit too long at his arms, corded with muscle she certainly didn’t expect to have been hidden under the plain white shirt and black fingerless gloves this entire time. The light of the fire outside is enough to illuminate his movements.

“Are you quite certain you’re alright with this?”

Willow moves her hastily folded clothes to the corner of the tent, eyes moving from Wilson’s arms to his middle, soft and a little pudgy. She can’t help but wonder how warm his bare skin would be underneath the vest. 

“Willow?”

She finally lets out a squeak of alarm as she’s dragged out of her near fantasy. 

“You look very cold.”

Sure enough, whenever she looks down, there are raised goose bumps all over the visible skin, and presumably everywhere else underneath her vest and bloomers.

“Yes, I’m fine, it’s, uhm, we-it’s getting late.”

“It certainly is.”

Wilson lays himself down on half of the bedroll, leaving a free portion for the pyromaniac to lie. While he’s certainly warmer than before within the shelter of the tent, he can’t help the ache he feels for physical contact. Lucky for him, he doesn’t have to wait for long. Willow sits down, rolling onto her side and down until she’s facing Wilson.

She’s rather surprised whenever he makes the first move and draws her into his chest, pulling the flimsily made sheets over them both. Willow tangles her ankles with his and half expects him to complain about her cold feet, and yet, he doesn’t. 

“Did you know that it’s a scientifically proven fact that physical closeness can actually strengthen an emotional bond?”

“No, but I could have guessed.”

Wilson shuts his eyes, leaning into the blissful warmth, and Willow’s stomach flutters. She feels the most unbearable urge to kiss him, and almost jolts herself up again at the surprise.

Where did that come from?

“Goodnight, lady Willow.”

Wilson tucks his head below her chin again, and, without thinking, kisses her clavicle. It takes a few seconds for his own action to register, upon which, his eyes promptly fly open. 

“I’m-I’m so sorry, lady Willow, I-“

“Goodnight, Wils.”

He can feel the heat radiating off her, much stronger than before. Well, that’s just safer. There’s much less chance of them getting sick, considering how heated they’ve both become. Some small part of him is proud that he managed to fluster her. Some much larger part of him is reviling in the touch of another person.

The gentleman scientist and the pyromaniac fall asleep together, and, for the first time in a long time, Wilson does not feel cold.


End file.
